


MaskTecter HeRon: Count Zero

by HereForMost777



Category: MaskTecter, MaskTecter HeRon, Original Work
Genre: Character Death, Character Study, Christian Symbology, Early Character Death, F/M, Gen, I've had this idea since 2015, Kamen Rider specifically, My poor boi DaJuan needs some help, Only in Aesthetic tho, Parasites, Parasitic infection, Satanic Symbology, Self-Esteem Issues, Toku-Inspired, it would exist even if I didn't become a KR fan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:48:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22061317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HereForMost777/pseuds/HereForMost777
Summary: Daryl is your average rural chap. Annoying little brother, Mommy issues, shitty grandparents, etc. He lives in the rural farming town of "Porteroia". An ethnically diverse farming town. He's been down of late, struck by the monotony of his simple life.However, when his friend KeShawn offers to take him spelunking into the depths of the mysterious "Portvan Hemel Infierno" Mines, he leaps at the chance, only for tragedy to unfold. Now, with his sanity slowly slipping, a weird "wriggling" in his chest, and murderous urges surging, he desperately tries to maintain the normal "life" he once loathed with a passion.Completely unrelated to Daryl, a young man named DaJuan grapples with the ails of his lot in life, finding solace from his abusive mother in the form of the local Youth Group, providing the younger children of "Porteroia" a brotherly figure to look up to. However, when one of the kids comes to them with concerns about the startling changes in their brother's behavior, DaJuan takes it upon himself to protect this child, slowly being roped into the blight that's come to possess Daryl, and soon...The Town.This is... MaskTecter HeRon
Relationships: KeShawn Williams/Niyah Adebayo





	MaskTecter HeRon: Count Zero

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, Revising this, going to be doing some MASSIVE restructuring to the chapter layout. Who knew attempting to rush out a novel by January 1st would result in burnout and a lack of direction with regards to moving forward... Amirite??
> 
> Everyone, literally... Everyone.
> 
> Anyway, I've ditched the whole ""ThReE pRoLoGuEs BeFoRe ThE mAiN sToRy"" in favor of a more ""nonlinear"" approach, if that makes any sense, we'll be starting with the chronological "end" of Count Zero, then flashing back to Daryl's initial state, leading *into* the venturing to the mines... and then hopping alllll the way back to DaJuan. 
> 
> It's my first time doing this, so chances are the execution will be mixed, but I have faith that it won't impact your enjoyment of the story all too much... Hopefully.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy the first chapter!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flash towards the end, we see two people clash. One, broken down, whittled to the mental brim. The other, hanging barely by his wit's end as he seeks desperately to protect the life of another.

The sky is a blanket, in a way, wrapped around the orb, the widthful circle of Mother Earth. Enclosing it within it's bounds, it's weightless, tender arms. With these arms it holds us, embracing us tightly as it turns our head away, into it's bountiful bosom. Staring seldom and only seldom, into the cold, uncaring sea of space, frigid, freezing. It stares her down with hazy, half-open eyes. A perverted eagerness hides behind the haze, the half-hidden eyes. Standing a gaze everpresent , waiting for just the right moment, the right slipup, to tear it's filthy, slithering arms into Mother Earth's grasp, yanking away her child, giggling with a euphoric glee, a perverted readiness to defile...

It's a dark night to night, an  inky shadow spread a cross the  sky, overlooking a rolling, indent ed valley. The shadow seeps in to the sky's fabric as if a melted, liquid slab of  butter onto bread. It's a near monopoly  even, a cold-hearted reign. Forcefully up rooting the other colors that  might pain themselves across  the canvas of the sky, save for the occassional twinkle of  stars oh so bright.  Repelling  away the ink as if it were water forcibly poured onto a patch of oil .

Clumped up in cotton like curls , floating in the sky, are clouds. Thick clouds at that, bunched up, wound together tightly in a spiral, along a lined spine: | . The slightest touch making it unwind,  breaking violently.  Crowds, bundles of rain have themselves spat out by these bunched, budded clouds, slamming against the ground in a cacophonic deluge . Thousands of sounds starting just seconds apart, and ending even further apart , a mess of sound, assaulting  the ears with needles of chaos .

These sounds flood the valley, seeping into it's downwardly  sloped recesses :  **◡** , they pervade, providing an unrelenting ambiance. Though, with no one around to hear....

"" _Donnnnn'_ _tttt_.. move ... Donnnn't " 

Nestled deeply within one of the valley' s few recesses, is a lone brick house, no bigger than a truck. It's pitch black  within the house, save for a lone wax candle, placed atop a  tray on the dining room table. Three people are present with in the  pitch black  room. A mopheaded man,  restraining a child  with his forearm, as he places the knife 's edged,  glistening blade onto the child's neck.  The blade  presses against the  neck, indenting the  skin ever  so slightly. If he were to press even  slightly  harder, the skin would rend, and blood would  pour . The child's eyes a reopened  wide, eyebrows raise d as it fearfully gazes at the knife, whimpering faintly.

""Daryl, please man, just put  the knife  do-"" The  other person present has a stance recoiled, left arm extended forward, slight bend in the  arm. The right arm is pulled back, with  a deeper bend in the elbow. His palms are slant, at an angle :  **/** , fingers extended out. They step forward in the slightest, moving  their right foot for war-

""Don'tttt you **FffffUC** **King** move!... Iff you moove, I'll ... I'll s lit this peewee's throat Rrright fuckiing open! You hear that you liiitle shit?"" The mopheaded man's head jerks forward violently , heaved like a bowling ball,  swung forward, and hastily hosted back up. His mouth is erratic, spewing spit with every other word. The grip upon the knife tightens, and the  child whimpers more  loudly than before,  tears pour down the  child's face.

""Okay! Okay... I'm steppin' back, alright?  I'm steppin' back"" The man who tried approaching Mophead steps back hastily, gesturing with his  outwardly  extended arms for the Mophead  to disarm  himself, raising them up, and  descending them down .

""Honestly? I don't Even know why I'm hesitating. It's not like I'm taking this little FUCKER hostage. I could  sllice his throat right now, like that"" the Mophead snaps,  rubbing his thumb and middle finger together with  haste, snapping. ""annd It'd be over wiith, I can  giive less of a shit about you kicking my aass DaJuan ,  as long as thiis little kicks  it..."".

DaJuan halts, dead in his tracks. His mind races,  obfuscated by the breakneck beating of his heart,  whirring like a tire against the concrete pavement. Bullets  of sweat shoot from  his forehead, rushing down the curvature of it. His breathes are shallow, shallow and fast . They don't bother  taking the time to catch a full lung of  oxygen, sucking in the bare minimum, they're just  as quick to spit it  back out,  repeating  the process ad nauseum. It's racing, individual seconds stop existing, clumping together into 'chunks' of time rather than lone seconds. What to do? What to do?

And then, it grinds to a halt. The 'chunks' break apart, splitting thinner than even before. Single seconds are stretched out as long as could be. The minute and overlooked become absurdly overaccentuated. The rapid beating of a panicked heart, once droning and monotone in it's intensity, becomes a painstaking experience, each individual, hasteful beat given attention. It's both an enraging eternity, and the blink of an eye.

** Thump... **

** Thump... **

** T H U M P. .. **

""AAAH!""  An ear-piercing scream shatters the silence,  Mophead's scream.

DaJuan snaps back, his senses  reattuning to his surroundings. The child in Mophead's grip  dug it's teeth into  his forearm, Blood dripping from the punctures. 

""Youu FffUCKER!"" His face twists, muscles contorting into  an enraged expression. The teeth clenched from top to bottom , ready to shatter a part. Discarding his playful taunts, he  grabs onto the child 's arm, grasping the armflesh firmly.  He raises  the knife, preparing to plunge it into that errant little waif of a child.

The window of opportunity finds  itself slightly ajar , and DaJuan seizes  it. He  lunges  towards the distracted Mophead , and with all his weight, he  _slams_ his palm up Mophead's filtrum, It caves in on  itself, compressing  unnaturally as the cartilage of the nose bends in. He  recoils, stumbling back from the pain, water wells atop the  surface of his eyeballs, blurring his vision. His  once iron  grip on the child's  arm loosens, and the child breaks free.  It darts to the other side of  the room,  taking cover behind  DaJuan.

"""Hnnnrgh "" Mophead growls, a rumbling, animal like noise.  He staggers upward,  hand covering the nose, he tries to get  a solid footing, but his 

DaJuan widens his stance in response, shielding the child. The child shudders at  the sight, whimpering faint cries of

""Little bud, can ya do Unc Da Juan a favor?""  he says, tilting his head at an angle towards the  youngling. ""I want  you to book it, get  out of the house and fetch us  sum help.  There should be a gas station  half-a-mile down the road"" Mophead begins to unslouch, straightening  his back,  and lifting his free hand off  the bridge of his nose.

""HnnnAAAAARGH!"" With foam dripping from the corners of his mouth, he unleashes an unholy roar, delving towards the child, knife  in hand. DaJuan, standing in front of the child, intercepts  the knife  strike with a rigid  forearm block, sweeping from the left side to the other. The blade rushes against a bit  of forearm with such a haste that the flesh  flays , less a clean slash , more a rabid gnawing.

""AH! Hnnnngh. Didn'tjya hear? GIT! Hhhaul your as-arse outta here bbefore the bad man gits ya!"" DaJuan squeaks in a faux country accent, a facade to ease the little bugger's mind, hoping to distract him, atleast in the slight, from the grimness of the situation. A painful hiss spitting forth from his tongue. Despite the pain, he tries to maintain a confident, nurturing facade for the child, of whom promptly flees, booking it out the door, the only other source of light within the room. 

""Youu... Ghet yourr ass baack hERE., DEVILISH LITTLE FHUCKER!"" Cries the Mophead, his coherence leaking, dripping from a bottle's crack. With a fevered rabidness, he claws at the child as he flees from his field of vision, dropping the knife in forgetfulness. His only interference comes from DaJuan, who provides a grounded counterbalance, preventing him from advancing forward.

""Gett...  GET OUT OF MYY WAY!  LITTLE FUCKKER'LL SNITCH TO MUM! TWIST THHE NARRATIVE..."" He continues to cry, desperately trying to pass the  barrier DaJuan's body serves as. Stepping to the side in hopes of twirling around, climbing atop his shoulders sliding  under. None of it works.

""I mean,  how much  twisitng could he REALLY do? You attacked him  with a fucking knife!  Not much contortin'  left to the mind  now is there? "" DaJuan  replies, shoving the Mophead back. He stumbles. No longer is he desperately clawing his way forward, with the  feverishness of a rabid animal. He begins to chuckle, a hyperventilation.

""Youu, y-y o u donn't get it DaJuan, youu.. . He l-liess, he lies  about EV -V ER YTHING! H- h-he likes s-seeing  th-hem angry,  th-hose ol-ld fucks h-hitting m e. I... I  j-j-just coul-ldn't  TAKE it anym-moreee"" The cackles give way to a torrent, an  unrelenting deluge of hyperventilation.  Tears pour from the  eyes as he tearfully gasps for air in the middle of words, repeating sounds in a sorrowful slush of  sadness. His head tilts downward, his eyes obscured

DaJuan's bitter, digusted  grimace begins to melt away, dripping off his face, to reveal a genuine concern.  Doing away with caution, he lowers his combat guard, dropping it entirely. He approaches the Mophead , to offer a gesture of solidarity.

The Mophead continues his feverish sobbing, gasps  for air in-between the agonizing cries,  but soon,  they devolve, ceasing altogether. An uneasy silence overcoming the room.

With a weightful, uncoordinated motion, Mophead slashes at DaJuan. Though without the knife providing a jagged edge, all it becomes is an uncoordinated, Haymaker of a strike, easily deflected with a rigid rotation of the forearm into an upward position. With the Mophead now open, DaJuan curls his hands, like he were holding a mug of Hot Chocolate, and shoves it at the Mophead's neck. Tightening the grip, he swings his leading foot behind Mophead's backward one, and with the set-up complete, he performs the manuever. Pushing upon the neck as he SWEEPS the foot. With the Mophead's stable footing lost, he crashes onto the floor

** THUMP! **

Rather aud ibly at th at...

Towering over the Mophead's fallen stature, DaJuan lumbers,  his face obscured by the darkness of the room. With menace,  he puts his face up  close to the Mophead.

""Just...  Just stop. "" As he stares down the rabid animal of a man, an unwilling hesitation wells within his voice, indicated by his frequent pauses.

""The coppers should be 'here soon, maybe if you'd uh.. calm down, you could... 'explain yourself to them, argue your grounds..."" With a tone faint, rife with frequent pauses, he attempts to talk down the deranged, rabid 'Daryl' on the ground. It claws at him, his feet, trying to plunge it's untrimmed nails through the dense, jeanlike fabric of his pantlegs. Sounds of struggle emanate forth from it's mouth, sharp, pointed noises, carrying an intent of threat. DaJuan merely replies with a silent detachedness, pressing his foot down harder upon Daryl's chest. ""HnnnAAAGH!"" It cries out as the foot seeps into it's chest, wailing supersedes the animalistic rage, even if only for a moment.

DaJuan's lip quivers, perching  upward with a wobble, his eyebrows raise themselves up by an inch, may be even two, as the  mounds of  forehead flesh slam together. Creating  small, kneaded rolls. His eyes wobble, a layer of  water atop the eye jiggling with an intensity, almost as if  the sight  were making him tear up. Nonetheless, he continues his actions, sinking his lower body further into  the ground , and thus , the foot deeper in to Daryl's chest.

** CRRRRRRCK **

A loud, snapping noise is made , originating from Daryl's chest.

""AhhhAAAA AAH!"" He  cries out, liquid streaming from his eyes, the sound reverberating off the walls , mounting .

DaJuan flinches, twisting his head away from Daryl at the mere sound of his agonized cries. They slide, changing to and forth from lower wails, peaking in the form of high screeches. No longer able to bear the cries, he releases his sunken in foot, raising his body upwards from his condensed, lowered stance. With the force upon Daryl's chest lifted, the cries stop, the panicked breathing crawling to a halt.

""You done?, This is really sad to watch, y'kno-"" An interruption, an interception breaks apart the sentence, bringing it to an end. A puncture, a penetration of the skin, the muscle even. DaJuan tilts his head downward, gazing upon the foot of his atop Daryl's chest.

A knife ,  Daryl's  knife, torn straight into his  lower calf , firmly entrenched, it penetrates  straight  to the bone, the knife's very  tip  tapping it, in a  mockingly  childlish  manner.

""AAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAH! " He recoils, screenching unholily. With DaJuan's  foot pulled back in  pain as blood  seeps forth from the penetrated site. Daryl scrambles, rolling aside, he clambers  upwards, stumbling as his feverish pace  impedes him from establishing  a solid footing.  DaJuan collapses onto the ground, exuding pained,  strainful  groans, like a string wound tight, near  the verge  of snapping should you pluck it too hard.

Blood continues to pour from the sight of the stab. With eyes half closed, DaJuan eyes the escaping  Daryl, who's yet to  completely get out of the kitchen.

DaJuan's mind races  about, his vestige over his body fading  with every passing second, blood gushing out from  the wound. His eyes  begin to feel like boulders, on a hill's downward  decline, only through the sheer force of will can  his inner  Sisphysus  muster what tiny bearings of strength it has left, muscles tensed, chain to chain, and  force  the boulder to stay  in place.  That strength wanes  however, and the inner Sisphysus begins  to yield,  the muscles loosening, chainlinks breaking. The eyelids drop, raised no higher than a grain of grave l.

** Light **

Through the pebble sized slit  of his eyes, he sees it, the welcoming orange light of the wax candle, the only  source of  light within this lone country home. An  idea sparked within  his mind,  he  slings  his achesome body upwards, grabbing the  permeable  melt of the candle,  he slings  it at Daryl, putting his weight behind the toss, collapsing  onto his knees.

The candle twirls on it's axis as it speeds through the air, loose bits of liquid wax dropping off, entropically scattering themselves across the floor. The flame flickers, wind rushing past it, before landing upon Daryl's bushed, Moplike curls he deems his hair. Like a spill, the flame soon spreads itself out across his hair's area, hopping from curl to curl, it ignites. It's not a short while before his entire head is ablaze, a wild orange inferno. Daryl diverts his attention away from his crazed sprint, rapidly slamming his hands atop his head, hoping to pat the flames into submission.

Having bou ght himsel f time, Da Juan lumbe rs up, usi ng the tab le to supp ort his we ight. He l imps towar ds Daryl,  sluggishly closing t he four fo otsworth d istance be tween the  table and  the kitche n exit.

""You aren't.. gettin away that 'asily... bub"" He groans. His pauses, the breaking apart of his sentences into audibly distinct parts continues, in spite of his newfound bloodloss. Though, they aren't of an unwillingness, a hesitation on his part to do what must be done. Rather, they are... of weakness, the sluggish agony that spreads throughout someone as their vital, ichor fluid is drained from them. He lumbers closer, stumbling several times, nearly half the distance between himself and Daryl being closed.

Overwhelmed, Daryl resumes his attempted dash, or  more accurately,  attempts. Frequently he halts the continuity of  his dash to pat down his blaze ridden head. Opportunity's window ajars  itself even wider for DaJuan. He  _leaps_ forward, tackling Daryl across the entrance hallway and  out  the door.

They both  come crashing to the ground, Daryl's face grating  against the little patch of gravel right outside the doorway. Jagged,  knifelike  grains of  rock rush  against the side of  his face,  tearing of f it in it 's entiret y as brown ish chunks of bloodi ed flesh p aint the g round. 

The screams of the two overlap , DaJuan's desperate , invigorative hollars overlaid atop the rabid, animalistic  screeches, an interlace of two polar oppositions.  A scream of invigoration, a self-derived jolt to prevent a crazed man  from harming anyone  else. To a deranged, fevered lunatic, placing a knife's very edge onto his brother's throat, a very  much  morbid  intent he  shows  full will to carry  out to it's end. Though in their opposition,  the two, diametrically opposed screams find a common, unified ground.  That ground? 

** Desperation **

They tumble down the hill, having landed on the edge of  the hill's flat ground. What starts off  mild accelerates crazily, rolling faster and faster as their  respective bodies race down the decline. Ramming into mounds and wayward rocks with the force of gravity pushing behind  them. It only accelerates from there, turning and  turning. The knife in DaJuan's ankle twists deeper inward, accompanied by burning, lingering screams of agony, droplets  of blood trailing behind. The  inferno atop Daryl's head finds itself extinguished, by the  rushing of wind against him as he tumbles.

Finally, the rush comes creeping to a half, as they find themselves lying stationary, in a little recess of mud right to the side  of the road. 

And for a  moment, it stops, all of it. The screams of heroic desperation and depraved violence, the  cries of agony, the  witty comments, it's just... gone. Just  the breathing of two , broken men, one bleeds profusely from  the ankle, their consciousness waning. The other,  with a scalp sizzled , turned a cracked,  boiled red , and a cheek, flesh thoroughly scraped  away. It's ... oddly  serene, the light of the moon  and the stars, the whistling of the grass, and the nighttime sky.

** In...  **

** and... **

** out... **

** In...  **

** out... **

** In...  **

The peace, the serene stillness is interrupted, a  shift in the air.

_Movement_ ,  lumbering  movements, punctuated with gasps, breaths heavy. 

Daryl, slings his arms forward , one after the other, encroaching towards DaJuan. DaJuan desperately  tries to get up, but the ache  of his muscles impedes him, blocking him from doing so. Not  even his  head  he can lift, only the tilting  of his eyes downward. To him,  he sees a  towering shadow, growing larger and larger as it approaches  him, in moment's time, the entire 'shadow' encompasses his sight entirely, towering over him, as all he can do is watch.

""hnnnnh,  hnnnh, hnn nnh"" Daryl's sounds devolve,  cognizance gone as he mumbles  like a wolf, ready to tear into the flesh of his prey. His hand feels  around, particularly by the lower, left  calf.

The Handle

Daryl's ha nd brisks  against th e handle o f the knif e as he co ntinued hi s feeling, he ceases his motiv eless sear ching, pla cing a lig ht grasp o nto the kn ife's hand le. DaJuan feels the momentum  of the mot ion, the s light micr omotions o f the hand , spasms,  twitchings of the fl eshed fibe rs as elec tricity po urs on thr oughout it 's length, as he sec ures the g rip. DaJua n grits hi s teeth, e yes flinch ing fully  shut as th e blade's  edge rises forth fro m the woun d.  The  muscles se vered begi n to bunch up, their structure lost with the knife 's upheava l , a geise r of blood gushing f orth.

It leaks, **drip...** ** drip... d ** **rip.**

Just  as suddenly as they  closed, his eyes jut open, looking towards the patch of umbral abyss where his calf should be. He feels every  bit of minutia, every miniscule drop of  blood, seeping, into the ground, the nooks and crannies of his jean fabric.

""I... I juUst waAnTed, wAanTed to kill HiM... Tony."" Daryl struggles with his speech, his words slow, and tone very much 'peculiar'. It spikes upward: , high, only to just as speedily flatline: -\--. His breathes are heavy, an obnoxious assault on the ears. 

"I... I dd iDn't want you invol ved, y'kno w... yoUu  weren't su pposed to  knnow, you SHHOULDN' T have knnown. It would havve  been a done deaal,  Tony dead."" He monologues, reigning in his vestiges , his  semblance  of coherence, to speak. Albeit , with a tone raspy, wilding between tones... ""Bu Ut... You  just HAAD  to getT involved, wo rrm your wAy into... iNto EVER YTHING that doessn't FUCKING concern you ..."" Bran dishing the knife, he hovers it atop DaJuan's neck , saliva dribbles from the mouth, bushles of curdled foam leaked onto  his face.

""Now... N noW I'm Go ing tto en joy thiiS, So... So  VvEry much ... "" 

Suddenly,  he erupts, a slight  chuckle slipping past his gritted, clenched teeth.

"Wow bud, not even gonna ask your prey for his last words? Y'know, rule numero uno of the 'deranged fucks' handbook. AKA, what deranged FUCKS like... like yourself typically d-"" A rigid block of flesh, muscle, and bone speeds into, and past his face. A fist. Daryl's fist, rigid blocks of hardened flesh centered around his knuckles, callouses. He punches again, and again, over and over, the aching pangs of injury mounting with each successive, alternating blow. Rigid fist chaffing forcefully against cushioned cheek. 

** CRRCK **

The erect  bone of DaJuan's jaw produces  a hasteful , audible  cracking,  and his head turns to the side, eyelids  waning...

Daryl's fist settles beside where he dropped the knife, in his fit of  derangement. He heaves it, dragging it onto the very throat  where it once lay.

DaJuan's lungs heave , desperately pulling in buds  of air to  keep himself woken.  But with the seepage of lifeblood from the wound below, and  the looming, crazed  specter above, such  a thing fades away,  growing less and less likely with each successive  second.

The last thing he sees is Daryl, looming over him, knife's edged, glistening blade atop his throat.. .


End file.
